


Stained Glass

by AtoTheBean



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friends to Lovers, Human Trafficking, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Mission Fic, excessive use of stained glass
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-20
Updated: 2018-01-31
Packaged: 2019-03-07 09:42:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13432056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AtoTheBean/pseuds/AtoTheBean
Summary: James is convinced that broken things, like himself, can't be beautiful. Q tries to show him another perspective.





	1. Barcelona — La Sagrada Familia

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jaimistoryteller](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jaimistoryteller/gifts).



> The art prompt for this one spoke to me right away, and spurred a lot of research for story settings, and then once Jaimi read it, even more art. So in an addition to the art prompt, which I'll link here but actually shows up near the end of the story, you'll see a number of other visual elements. There will be links at the beginning of each chapter (and sometimes within the chapter) to actual windows I've used as elements in the story. And when we get to it, an additional piece of art jaimistoryteller made for the work. Finally, the link for the final chapter is a fictional web entry, with text by me and art by jaimistoryteller. I hope you'll enjoy the story, and find that the additional art and visual elements enhance the story.
> 
> You'll find jaimistoryteller's original art prompt, also called Stained Glass, [here](https://78.media.tumblr.com/d57e4e7ba11060760543b6942b2c8f08/tumblr_inline_p2u5bqp35Z1t9ucbg_540.jpg).
> 
> Many thanks to jaimistoryteller, NixDucky, and Dazeventura for assisting with beta reading.

**Barcelona — _[La Sagrada Familia](https://www.forbes.com/sites/johngiuffo/2011/05/13/the-power-of-light-in-la-sagrada-familia/#3aa5c78f603d) _**

 

“You know, 007, I’m quite jealous at the moment.”

Bond scans the crowd before responding, “And why’s that?” over the comms.

“I’ve always wanted to visit _La Sagrada Familia_ ,” Q answers with perfect Spanish annunciation. “It’s a mathematician's dream. There’s barely a straight line in it. It’s composed of spirals and hyperboloids and paraboloids, and helicoids and ellipsoids! Columns that are double twisted for stability, like….like a helix!”

“Q.”

“And don’t get me started with the use of ratios—”

“Q, please… no ratios. I’m trying to find a mark,” Bond interrupts.

“ _I’m_ trying to find the mark. You’re there to intercept. May as well enjoy the scenery. Tell me, do the columns really look like trees? Gaudi took inspiration in nature. The pyramidal towers are like spiraled cone seashells, and in the main chamber, the columns are branched near the top to make them look like trees, the ceiling representing a forest canopy, with light streaming through in places. Is that what you see?”

Bond sighs and looks beyond the crowd to the architecture he’d largely ignored. He’s surprised by what he finds. “It is,” he admits.

“And I understand the stained glass is spectacular. Well, perhaps not the windows themselves — they have nothing on _Palau de la Música Catalana_ — but the way the different colors of light illuminate the columns and make the the “forest” glow is supposed to be quite remarkable.”

Bond looks up and down the chamber as he listens to Q typing on the other end of the comms. It’s true. The windows are each predominantly a single color, making some columns bathed in green, others blue, others magenta… the effect is surreal and ethereal. Still…

“I don’t like stained glass.”

The typing pauses. “Whyever not?”

“Looks broken,” he says, moving through the crowd again and scanning faces for a purveyor of evil in this place of… well, peace he supposes. For others anyway. “All those ugly thick lines where they don’t belong. Broken things can’t be beautiful.” He knows this better than most. He’s been shown the evidence in the way Madeleine left him on a beach in France.

“Bond?”

The change in tone suggests a new topic. “Where is he?”

“Leaving the east doorway. Purposefully. It would seem the drop was made.”

“I’m moving. Stay with him, Q. Lead me when I’m out.”

Bond advances through the crowd and exits the building. “Left,” Q directs as Bond clears the basilica and begins to run. “Costa’s heading to those apartment buildings on _Avinguda Gaudí_. Take the alley on your left in 200 meters.”

Bond gains on him, and is able to make out his expression when Costa finally realizes he’s prey. He dashes into an apartment complex, Bond on his heels.

“I’ve lost visuals,” Q announces. “I’ll get CCTV on the other doors in case you lose him.”

“I won’t lose him,” Bond grunts, bounding up the stairs. This. This is what he’s good at. If he has any residual beauty left, it is as a destructive force. A hurricane focused on Britain’s enemies. The man he’s chasing is younger than he is. Thinner. Cocksure until he reaches the fourth floor and sees that Bond is still with him — still gaining. Then the first look of worry crosses his face.

It makes Bond grin.

He should be worried. A man who preys on girls — entices them with promises of opportunity in the U.K., traffics them, and then traps them in a life of drugs and sex — is exactly the sort of man Bond takes unmitigated joy in destroying. Men like this enjoy their power so viscerally — not like politicians or mafia bosses. Bond loves to see their expression in that moment, when they realize they are not the predator. When they realize Bond could chew them up and spit them out and not even flinch over their crumpled bones. He doesn’t even get a rush of adrenalin from it anymore. It’s not passion that drives him. It’s something colder. And even though he’s seen this man’s face, he knows that when he’s dead, which will be very soon, Bond won’t see it in his dreams. He won’t feel an ounce of remorse over this scum.

Bond chases him through a flat of screaming civilians, onto a fire escape, and onto the roof.

“Remember, we want him alive, 007,” Q cool voice breaks through his thoughts. “He’s just our first look at this ring. We need his contacts.”

Bond grunts in response.

James corners Costa on the roof, where he’s apparently decided he can’t make the jump to the next building. He turns to face Bond, wild-eyed and panting.

“Who _are_ you?” he demands.

Corny lines come to him in the way of answers as he slows his approach, confident now that he’s won. _Your worst nightmare_. Or the simpler, _Bond, James Bond_ , because he’s never been afraid to give his name to the living, much less the soon-to-be dead. Perhaps it’s his time in the basilica that has him answering with the more dramatic, “An angel of death, specializing in men who hurt little girls.”

Q’s long-suffering sigh sounds in his ear.

Still, it has the desired effect on the enemy. The man looks incredulous and then half crazed as he lunges for Bond. He has a knife, because his type _always_ has a knife, but Bond quickly disarms him and gets him into a hold he can’t escape.

“Now, now,” Bond tuts as the man struggles and grunts against him. “We were having such a nice conversation. I know you’re used to having the upper hand,” he continues, searching Costa’s pockets and appropriating their contents. “Used to being able to outmaneuver or overpower anyone in your way. Pathetic. And yet against someone your own size…”

Costa struggles, pitching Bond toward the edge of the roof. He catches his balance, but Costa is cantilevered out over space, hands and eyes grasping at Bond.

He could pull him in. He could. But he doesn’t.

Instead he holds up the tablet he’s confiscated from the man’s pockets and raises his eyebrow.

“ _Por favor, Señor, se lo ruego_.”

“That’s not what I need.”

Confusion gives way to comprehension, and then a single word. And after that, Bond really has no reason to hang on.

He’s heading back down the stairs when Q’s crisp voice demands, “007! Did I just see Costa hit the sidewalk on CCTV?”

Bond grimaces at the visual. “He must have been filled with remorse, Q,” he speculates without missing a step. “Saw the error of his ways. The beauty of all those colors illuminating God’s geometry probably made him see the light. Literally. He all but threw himself from the roof. There was nothing I could do.”

“Bond!” James smirks at Q’s obvious exasperation. It’s become one of his favorite parts of the job, lately. “We need his contacts if we’re to take down this organization. We needed him brought i—”

“Don’t get your knickers in a twist, Quartermaster,” he interrupts. “Before Costa had the good grace to rid the world of his presence, he gifted me his phone and tablet.”

“My knickers are not...I don’t wear knickers,” Q huffs. Then the typing on Q’s end of the comm link abruptly stops. “Did you say ‘gifted’?”

“Well, he didn’t seem focused on them, at any rate. I could tell they would need a new home shortly.”

Q snorts, and then offers another long sigh. “Well, in that case I suppose I won’t lose any sleep over the loss of Mateo Costa.” And this is one of Bond’s favorite things about Q. He doesn’t always approve Bond’s methods, but as long as there’s a net increase in tech being brought home, he’s reasonably forgiving. “Where are you headed, now? I show you moving southeast.”

Bond looks up at a CCTV camera as he walks by. “Just thought I’d take a stroll back to the hotel via the Gothic Quarter, in case I need to lose a tail amongst the throngs of tourists. Keep an eye out, will you?”

“Of course, 007.”

He weaves his way south, ignoring the sirens heading the other way, past the _Plaça de Tetuan_ , and past the _Retro Auto Moto Museo_ he had noted that morning. After ten or so blocks Q assures him he’s not being followed and signs off to help 004. Bond is nearly to the Gothic Quarter when he spies a name Q had dropped mid-exultation — [_Palau de la Música Catalana_](http://www.spacesxplaces.com/palau-de-la-musica-catalana-barcelona-modernist-architecture-spain/) — and stops mid-stride.

He shouldn’t care. He really doesn’t like stained glass, but he’s curious. He finds himself approaching the facade, surprised to find the theater open as cleaning crews prepare the facilities for that evening’s performance. The building itself is a bit ornate for his tastes, festooned with intricate and delicate sculptural elements that Bond can’t imagine Q appreciating after his exuberant praise of the simpler geometry of _La Sagrada Familia_. But as he enters the concert hall itself, he understands. It’s illuminated entirely by natural light, flanked by stained glass panels set in beautiful archways on either wall, but dominated by a sunburst stained glass skylight in the ceiling. It’s lustrous. Geometric but not harsh, organic curves and concentric rings of figures like a greek chorus, balancing the more pedantic conformity to radial symmetry. It suddenly makes perfect sense that Q would appreciate this. There’s a flow to it, like the nature-inspired forms in Gaudi’s masterpiece. Bond feels he’s been offered an inadvertent glimpse at the man behind the moniker. He’s not sure what these small tidbits of secrets mean, exactly, but he stores them away for safekeeping.

By the time he gets back to his very modern hotel at the water’s edge, he’s hungry. He orders room service, and has Q in his ear again as he samples fideuà and opens the tablet, entering the password that was Costa’s final utterance, and showing Q the screen via a secure video conference on his phone.

“Get me a bit closer, please?”

Bond moves the phone in front of the tablet, lining the camera up with the screen.

“Okay, you’re right. It’s not a standard tablet operating system. It’s been reconfigured to run Kali… that’s a Linux interface… through a VNC viewer. Does the tablet cover have a bluetooth keyboard?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, I’m going to dictate some commands to you. You need to type them exactly as I say.”

“Understood.”

The syntax is complicated, but Bond is nothing if not attentive to details. Soon a series of web addresses are scrolling across the black screen.

“Okay stop. That’s… those all have .onion domain names. Those are Tor network sites on the darkweb. These have to be the adverts for the kids he’s selling. And you’re the seller, or so the system thinks, so we should be able to see everything: contacts, locations, partners, buyers. This is excellent, Bond.”

“Just tell me what to do so we can find out where to send me next.”

It’s excruciating work for Bond, who is not familiar with the Linux syntax, and whose thick, blunt fingers don’t fly on the keyboard as he knows Q’s would. But they are fighting the clock and don’t have time to get the device back to Q. Sure enough, within an hour, websites start disappearing, their credentials hitting brick walls as Costa’s associates realize he’s dead and shut down his access. But by then Q has already seen enough, already talked Bond through the creation of a backdoor that allows him in from his own computer in London, regardless of Costa’s credentials being revoked.

It’s late by the time Q signs off. “I’ll look at it more when you bring it in. Any files stored on the actual device will still be accessible, even if they’ve tried to batten down the web connections. I’ll report on all this to M in the morning, and by the time you’re home we should have tentative plans for next steps. I wiped your image from the CCTV digital records for the building and the street cameras focused on the entrance. Costa will be visible climbing the stairs to the roof. Nothing should connect you to his death.”

“Thank you, Q.”

“All in a day’s work, 007. Get some rest. Your flight is midday tomorrow.”

Bond’s already opened the small bottle of _Brandy de Jerez_ in the minibar. “You too, Q. I’ll deliver your tech to you tomorrow evening.”

The next day Bond checks in for his flight and then visits the airport bookstore for some reading material. He finds a book on the nautical history of Catalonia from the Romans to WWII that will do nicely, but on the way to check out, he sees “Art & Mathematics in Antoni Gaudí's Architecture: La Sagrada Família” comprising pages of glossy color photographs and equations in black and white.

He pauses for only a moment before adding it to his purchases.


	2. Paris — Notre Dame

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Don't forget to click through on the hyperlink if you want to see what Bond sees...

**Paris —[Notre Dame](https://enthusiastical.wordpress.com/2013/05/03/southern-rose-window-notre-dame-paris/)**

He’s been in Paris for a day, chasing leads on an “auction house” the syndicate uses for the girls — and boys — they can get the best prices for. Q has broken through part of the encrypted files on the phone and tablet Bond brought back from Barcelona, providing enough information to merit fieldwork: the time and location for a party for “new buyers”, and the identities of UK citizens amongst the invited and those for sale. As if that weren’t enough. Some of the contacts in the phone are also suspects in an arms trafficking network MI6 had thought was unrelated. There’s a heightened priority on the mission, and when he left London to start the legwork, Q was continuing to access the encrypted files, with promises to update him over comms if new intelligence impacted his reconnaissance.

He must have found something, because at half two there’s a text:

_Q: Notre Dame, North Rose Window. 4pm._

JB: Whom am I meeting?

There’s no response, which is odd. It’s not like Q to give incomplete information. Still the instructions are clear enough, and the route to the cathedral will take him past the last shop that they believe is a front for the organization. He can check it on the way.

When he arrives at Notre Dame, making his way in the relative darkness of the interior to the north wall housing the famous window, who should be sitting in the pews but Q himself?

Hiding his surprise, Bond slides in next to him, looking up at the window and experiencing a bit of _deja vu._

“If you ask me what I see,” he mutters, “I’ll say ‘a bunch of broken glass depicting figures I was forced to read about in my youth’.”

Q smirks and glances sideways at him. “You aren’t moved, then?”

“Not in the least.”

“They are some of the best examples of their era,” he says, nodding at the other windows as well, “designed to help those who couldn’t read and only knew the stories from weekly church sermons remember the details.”

Bond can see that — not so much in the Rose Window but the ones flanking the main chamber. Still, “Am I just sitting my weekly art history lesson, or do you actually have something useful to tell me.”

Q snorts and smirks again. “Give me your phone.” Bond does, and watches in veiled fascination as Q expertly opens it, removes the SIM card, replaces it with a new one, and closes the back. Then he restarts the phone, opening an app Bond’s never seen before and checking some settings. “Now that I’ve broken the encryption on the phone, I realized they utilize a… a handshake of sorts.... amongst their inner circle. I’ve programmed yours to employ the same handshake, and when it does it will sneak an access point — back door, if you will — into the system that will allow me to track all that are connected to it. All you have to do is get one of them to text this number from theirs, or vice versa, and I’ll be in.”

“Sounds handy.”

“Indeed. With luck I’ll be able to track the network backwards through their supply chain and find out where they are capturing these people. And then we’ll have somewhere new to send you.”

“How delightful.”

“Yes, well, can’t always be Paris, can it? Though I noticed there’s to be another of these… these _do’s_ … in London next month. Perhaps we can strive to have this wrapped up before then. Now, back to the issue at hand.” He gives James another smirk. “You really think it’s all a bunch of broken glass and… and saints no one remembers?”

Bond glances at the window again. There’s a… a certain charm, he supposes, in the jewel tones and symmetry. But the faces are all two-dimensional and there are still lines across the bodies that are clearly not meant to be part of the design — only there because the glass is too weak to exist in bigger pieces. Too prone to breakage. Those dark lines remind him of the lines running through himself, maring whatever beauty he might have once been capable of.

He just shrugs, “Still looks broken.”

“You know, in Japanese culture, when a piece of pottery is broken, they mend it with gold, and the result is considered more beautiful and more treasured than the original, because now it tells a story.”

Bond just grunts at that. He can’t imagine that highlighting cracks could make something more beautiful. Scars tell stories, but they aren’t attractive.

“How do you know all this? I thought you were a computer geek.”

“A...uh, _friend_ at uni sat art history. I picked up a few things, and pursued the topics I found interesting… maths in art, the chemistry of coloring glass.” Q offers with a shrug. “Thank you for the book, by the way. I’ve not seen that one before, and the write up on the use of ellipsoids and helicoids was particularly good.”

Bond has no idea when Q had time to even look at the book, considering how much time has been dedicated to this mission. “I’m glad you like it. Seems like you should really see it in person, though. You’d appreciate it more than I did.”

“Well, it’s not exactly a two-hour train ride like Paris, is it?” Q reasons.

“No, but it’s a two-hour flight, and not even expensive.”

Q looks at him, baffled. “I don’t like to fly. The whole agency knows that.”

“But,” Bond shakes his head. “I thought Eve was just having a go about that. You flew to Austria to help me...”

Q’s expression immediately shutters. “Yes, well. I believe that’s also the time I told you I hated you.” He hands Bond his phone back with a small smirk. “Best of luck tonight, Bond. Do try to get me that connection, won’t you?”

James knows a dismissal when he hears one. “It will be waiting for you by the time you’re back at Headquarters,” he assures, pocketing the phone. “Enjoy the train ride home. Wait, did you come alone?” he asks, abruptly concerned for his Quartermaster’s safety.

Q shakes his head. “002 is grounded, and offered to escort me. Which meant we could leave earlier because I was free to program the patch on the train… didn’t have to watch my own back. Saved us time in the end. He’s over there,” Q nods to the corner of the room where Bond sees Jonathan leaning against the wall, watching them. Bond feels… he isn’t sure. Relieved that Q did not come to meet him unprotected, but still uncomfortable with idea of Jon and Q relaxing on a train ride home. “I should be back in Q branch before the party is over. Be sure to activate your comms. R will handle you until I take over.”

He moves to get up, but James stops him with a hand on the arm. Q turns and raises an eyebrow.

“I just wondered what you thought,” Bond nodded at the window.

“Oh.” Q sits back in the pew again, studying the window. “Honestly, it’s not one of my favorites, either. It’s all a bit heavy, isn’t it?” He nods at the architecture. “Impressive, but not inspiring, particularly. A very good example of a style I’m not overly fond of. But it seemed as good a place as any to meet.” He stands and takes his anorak from the space beside him, nodding before leaving to make his way over to 002.

James can’t help but think Q isn’t saying something important.


	3. Shiraz, Iran — Nasir al-Mulk Mosque

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a long one... roughly a third of the total fic, but I didn't like splitting it, so... 
> 
> jaimiestoryteller made an additional piece of art (beyond the prompt) for this chapter. It's called The Rescue and it's embedded in the text. She's also posting it on her tumblr.
> 
> Also, the location of the next glass doesn't really show up until the end of the chapter, so I linked it there instead of the beginning. I know it's annoying that it breaks up the reading, but it really is worth a quick look.
> 
> Thank you so much for the lovely comments.

James gets the connection in Paris, attaching himself early in the evening to a “personal concierge” who chats him up about his preferences relating to age, sex, nationality, body type… the possibilities seem endless. Bond insists that he is open to many experiences, hoping to keep her talking so he can get a sense of just how far this network reaches. In the end, she offers to take him to a private viewing room to preview a few “items for auction” next month.

Bond is a hardened killer, remorseless and efficient. Cold. But he can barely retain his cover as he watches from a dark room behind one-way glass as six boys and girls of varying ages and ethnicities are paraded about a bright room either wearing nothing or draped in sheer, revealing fabric.

There’s nothing remotely alluring about any of it, and Bond draws on all his acting ability to look interested, telling her he needs to consider the possibilities and offering his phone for her to text herself so she can invite him to the next auction.

The text opens the access Q needs, revealing tendrils of contacts spreading like invasive vines across Europe, North Africa, and the Middle East. He’s not been in London a full 24 hours before he’s sent to Iran, which is teeming with western businessmen now that the arms deal has been signed and sanctions relaxed, America’s withdrawal notwithstanding. It makes for a very entrepreneurial atmosphere, perfect for preying on the weak and defenseless.

Q is in his ear as he physically checks locations on Q’s electronic map of warehouses where people might be held like chattel. He’s now on his fifth day of reconnaissance… the boring kind consisting of sitting in a car with binoculars and documenting comings and goings. The first two warehouses he checked were closer to the sea and easy port access, but Shiraz has come up in the network chatter increasingly over the last few days, and Q has apparently commandeered all the limited tech available to identify this location, a small warehouse that almost looks like it was once a private hangar.

“Are you sure this can’t be done remotely?” he inquires over comms, because avoiding this type of work was exactly why he entered the 00-program.

“I did try. There aren’t enough cameras in this part of town, and the ones that do exist are predominantly low resolution. Too low for effective facial recognition. I’m monitoring the one decent camera on the other side of the building, but this side has more activity. I’m sorry, sometimes the having eyes on the ground is better than all the tech I can access. The old ways are still sometimes best.”

“Why Q,” he preens, still watching the warehouse doorway through the lenses, “I never thought I’d hear you utter such blasphemy.”

He snorts. “Yes, well. Take the compliment where you can. You have better vision than a 2-megapixel camera from 1998, which is about the quality those security cameras are offering at the—”

“I’ve got something,” Bond interrupts “Idiot number two is coming back through the door… alone. Are you sure this is where they’re keeping them?”

“No,” Q sighs, “but it’s the best bet. Satellite coverage shows multiple van deliveries over the last week, one at least appearing to be a refrigerated lorry. Potential food delivery.”

“Well, from my day’s surveillance I’d say there are five guards regularly coming and going. It’s possible that there are still some in there that I haven’t accounted for, but typically the captives are traumatized enough by whatever force they’ve seen that it doesn’t take too many guards to hold them; they’d be unlikely to stage a riot that a small number of trained guards can’t keep down. I can go in tonight to verify.”

“If we send you in tonight, it will be for further recon only. We need more pieces in place before we can try to stage an actual rescue. And we’ve got 006 in Romania and 004 in Algeria. We need to tighten all the nooses at once.”

James isn’t sure he agrees with that assessment. He prefers to take advantage of situations as they come up. He scans the building’s windows. “Any inconspicuous entrances you’re aware of? The windows are all painted black from the inside.”

“Hmmm. There appears to be a roof access, but I don’t see any exterior stairs or fire escapes.”

“There’s a grappling hook in the pack you sent me with.”

“That was for climbing, when we thought they were being held in in the mountains.”

“It would still work.”

“It will make a tremendous racket when you launch it to the roof.”

“Hmmm. Good point. I’ll just have to free climb, then.”

“Bond—”

“It’s only two stories. And it’s fairly uneven brick. I’ll be fine.”

One of the things Bond likes best about Q is that he picks his battles, and when he decides to stop fighting, he actually helps. Case in point…

“There appear to be some pipes on the north side of the building.”

Bond shifts his gaze to the far end of the wall, where he can just make out a duct and downpipe near the corner. “It’s awfully close to the one decent camera.”

“I’ll take care of it.”

Hours later, just after midnight, Bond returns in black fatigues, a high-resolution camera pinned to the collar to give Q eyes on the inside. While getting ready, Bond joked about putting it on his arse so Q could watch his back, and Q actually paused to wonder if that was a better use.

The street is poorly lit, which means he doesn’t have to waste a bullet and risk discovery by shooting out any streetlights. Bond climbs to the roof and finds the trap door and decides to take the time to pick the lock quietly rather than deal with it more violently. He lowers himself onto a loft floor… a second story that rings the entire warehouse, giving him a good view of the center of the main floor. For the most part it’s dimly lit, the hulking shadows of several lorries taking up most of the space, occasional patches of pale light against the walls. The one exception is in the corner of the room, where a group of men are gambling and drinking under a single bright light, guns casually placed on the table.

If he were to launch a rescue, the first order of business would be to take them out without letting them sound an alarm. He could shoot them from here with a silencer and probably get two or three before they started shooting back, but there was no cover except darkness and—

“Don’t even think about it,” comes the crisp voice in his ear.

His Quartermaster knows him far too well. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Q huffs a laugh. A moment later a quiet, “The doors,” comes over the comms.

“I see them,” he whispers, moving silently through the shadows to get a better look. It seems that the loft floor is essentially covering a series of small rooms ringing the warehouse. All the doors are closed, and some have dim light showing through small windows. He’s made a complete circuit of the of the upper floor, checking for additional guards. He finds one strolling the perimeter, occasionally rattling a door.

“Total still appears to be five guards,” Bond whispers, heading to the stairs. They are open, and there’s always a chance that someone will look over, but he trusts the shadows and the distraction of the men. He peeks through the window of the first door and counts four women...teenagers, probably, in cots along the walls. He continues around to the other doors. All told he counts 37 captives, with one more room to go when the door starts to open.

Bond ducks back into a shadow as Q hisses curses in his ear. He holds his breath and stills, a camouflaged predator, hoping not to become prey. The door swings open and a man comes out, refastening his fly. Bond hears whimpering cries from within the room. The man, fortunately, moves away from Bond, rattling the last door down this side of the warehouse before crossing the shadowy expanse to the other side.

Stealthily as a cat, Bond moves forward to catch the door before it closes. Two — well they’re children, really — are sitting on the bed, a boy comforting a sobbing girl. The boy looks up, eyes flashing at Bond, wild hair reminding Bond of another protective, thin-framed male.

“Q, you really need to let me shoot these men.”

There’s an abrupt increase in noise on the other end of the comms.

“Hold, 007.”

He hears Q’s voice along with several others in the background, including M’s he thinks. It’s only a moment later when Q is addressing him again. “You may just get your wish. Two new pieces of information: the auction is being moved up, so this lot will likely be moved sooner rather than later.”

“And?” he whispers.

“And facial recognition software has ID’d the caucasian girl three rooms ago as Alice Worthington, a British national on our missing persons list.”

“Bloody hell.”

“Quite. M wants to know if you’re serious about being able to take the captors out without endangering the captives.”

“The kids are all in their rooms. As long as I use a silencer and draw the men away from the table one at a time, I should be able to manage six at short range without too much trouble.”

There’s a long pause, during which Bond half expects some quip about Q having heard that before, but he’s all efficiency when he’s back in Bond’s ear. “It’s a go. I’m scrambling local authorities… they should be there in twenty minutes and have been told not to shoot you, though it might be best if you were gone by then. A Ms. Amanda Pierce from the Tehran Embassy is also being notified. She arrived in Shiraz earlier today as a precaution, and should be able to get to you quickly and take custody of any British nationals. I’ll watch the cameras outside—”

“Q?”

“Yes, Bond?”

“Shhhh.” He raises his finger to his lips, signalling to the kids as well, whose eyes widen and heads bob as they see him pull out his gun and move beyond their door.

The first kill is the easiest. The man was still in a post-coital haze and doesn’t even raise his gun before Bond shoots him between the eyes, wishing he could have made the death more gradual and painful. He eases the man to the floor, tucking his gun into his own belt, and stills to listen for the second guard patrolling the ring of doors. The man rattles one more door before James takes him out, allowing his body to drop with a small clatter.

An abrupt stillness falls over the men at the table, and James grins.

“Farhad?”

James darts to another shadowing corner of the warehouse as the men argue over who should investigate.

“ _Farhad_ ,” says the unlucky man, “ _you know we aren’t supposed to mess with the merchandise. What are you—_ ”

He never finishes the question. Bond lowers his body to the ground and slings his newly acquired assault rifle over his shoulder, hoping he doesn’t have to resort using that in these close quarters. He replaces the magazine on his Walther, knowing that the last three will be on alert now, and he’s likely to need a full clip to take them out.

He feels alive. He may be too broken for a proper relationship, he may be too cold and untrusting for love, but this he can do. He can kill these men like the dogs they are and return Alice and the others to their families. They’re still young enough to recover from the brutality and not follow in his emotional footsteps.

The next three kills are messier, the men spreading out and finding the bodies of their comrades before he can dispose of them quietly. Shots from assault rifles chase Bond as he dodges between lorries and methodically takes them out one by one, Q’s voice offering intel periodically. When the last goon is down, Bond doubles back to the room Q claims holds the British national. He opens the door to find five girls of various ethnicities huddled together on a single bed.

“Miss Worthington?”

The only blonde’s eyes widened. “You’re English!”

He nods. Close enough, after all. “I’m to escort you to an embassy representative.”

“And my friends?”

Friends? She was here long enough to make friends?

“The authorities are coming to sort everyone. I’m only responsible for sorting you.”

_“Alice, what’s he saying? Is he one of the bad men?”_

“ _I killed the bad men_ ,” he answers in Farsi. “ _Everyone is leaving here._ ”

“Police are five minutes out,” Q says in his ear.

“ _The police are coming. They’ll keep you safe._ ” That seemed optimistic, but the only thing he can really offer.

“Ms. Pierce will arrive first. Hand off on Miss Worthington and become scarce,” Q suggests.

“Understood. If you could come with me, Miss Worthington.”

She scrambles off the bed. “We’re getting the others out, aren’t we?”

“The police are on their way. My agency is in contact and will make sure they’re safe,” he repeats in English.

He should have known better than to think the other girls would stay put. They are up and off the bed and out of the room and opening the other doors before Bond can attempt to stop them. Distressed calls emanate from one of the rooms, and after a moment’s pause, Bond turns to investigate.

“ _My sister. She can’t walk._ ”

It’s the same boy and girl from before, and the girl is obviously bruised, but nothing appears broken.

“Q?”

“Medical will be there in 4. You should be gone by then.”

He turns to go, and the boy cries, “ _You can’t just leave her! She’s too weak to walk._ ”

He turns back, deciding it will be faster to comply. “I’ll just make her a bit easier to find,” he says, scooping the girl up as her brother reassures her. Small arms wrap around his neck, and he turns to go. With Alice and the boy in tow, he carries the girl to the front of the warehouse, past the bodies by the table.

 

 

He’s just cleared them when he hears a scream and turns, and feels the impact of the shot before he even hears it.

“Bond! Are you hit?”

He shoots the man between the eyes before he quite registers Q’s words. Screams echo through the room, and he feels warmth oozing across his chest. He doesn’t feel any pain though — and that’s when he realizes that the arms around his neck have tightened and the small body has stiffened.

“No…”

“Bond sitrep!”

He sets the girl down so he can see the wound. “Innocent hit,” he reports. “Entrance wound in the back, exit upper left chest. Give me your sweater,” he adds, turning to Alice, whose eyes are like saucers. It takes a beat for her to understand, but then she’s stripping it off and wadding it up. He doesn’t take it, instead grabbing her hand and pulling her to kneeling, pressing the sweater and her hand over the wound. “Where is medical, Q? She’s small and weak and will bleed out in minutes.”

He can barely hear Q typing over the cries of her brother and the other children.

“You should hear the siren—”

“Mr. Bond?”

James turns to the new voice at the door. A tall woman with brown hair and a dark suit is standing in the doorway searching the room.

“Here!”

She approaches quickly. “I’m Amanda Pier—”

“This is Alice Worthington, British national, and the child is Yasmine. This is her brother. She was shot during the rescue and needs immediate attention.” He can hear the sirens now. He looks the woman in the face. She’s obviously a desk jockey, but seems to be assessing the situation quickly. “I’m told both our jobs will be simpler if I’m not here when the locals arrive.”

“All the hostiles are dead?” she asks, getting to the heart of the matter. He likes her directness.

“All have headshots... now. Six total.”

“Any other injuries?”

“Not that I’m aware of, but you should know that the captives were… Yasmine was raped.” He spits the words. “There may be others.”

Her eyes dart back down to the girl. “Dear god. Right. I’ll ensure they’re checked.”

“Bond, leave now.” Q’s voice is more terse than usual.

He looks at Amanda, “If I’m to avoid the locals, I’m told now’s the time. Have you got this?”

“Go,” she assures, kneeling to help apply pressure to the wound. “I’ll take care of them. Thank you for your work here.” He’s already walking away.

The cold air hits him like a slap. The blood on his shirt, once warm as it spread like misplaced emotion, now sticks to his skin, clinging and insistent as he tries to bury the memory of thin arms around his neck and a small frame stiffening in his arms. Regret is unprofessional. He’s felt a hundred deaths, some his own. He’s watched the light die from a hundred eyes. He is cold, ruthless, efficient. Broken, but useful in his brokenness, honorable in the horror he endures and inflicts.

So why does the cold blood wetting his skin feel like a wound? Worse than if he’d been shot himself?

Q is silent as he runs the four blocks to the car, but the comms crackle to life as James starts the engine.

“The hotel still appears safe. The police and ambulance have arrived in the front of the warehouse and did not notice your departure out the back.”

“Thank you, Q. I’m going offline.”

“I don’t think that’s wis—

Bond shuts off the comm but leaves it in his ear. He’s barely watching the road as navigates to the hotel, focused instead on battling the hot, angry thing clawing its way through his chest and mind. He enters through a back entrance he removed the light from earlier and avoids the lifts. When he gets to his floor he gives the CCTV camera one last look, knowing Q will see him, before entering the room and heading straight for the bar. He pours himself a too-large scotch and retreats to the bathroom. He needs to wash. He needs to destroy the evidence and prepare to flee if Q gives a signal. He’s meant to have this room for another three days, and disappearing would look suspicious, but he needs to be ready in case it’s necessary.

He does none of those things.

Instead he confronts his reflection, hating everything about it. The blood-smeared face and hair, the drawn lines around his eyes and mouth, the bloodshot eyes that look as if they’ve been _crying_ for god’s sake. The cold bloodstain that dampens half his chest. Details come back that he ignored in the moment: the cries of the brother, her lips moving wordlessly and eyes casting around for something as he lowered her to the floor. The knowledge, even then, that the wound was too large, her frame too small.

He screams his fury, and his reflection breaks… shatters, facets now reflecting bright crimson from his knuckles.

He rends his clothes, preferring the hot, bright blood on his hands to the cold dark variety staining his chest. He leaves them in a pile on the floor and steps into the shower, wishing it could wash memory and bitterness and shame. He’s having trouble breathing, and when he’s clean and the bleeding in his hand has slowed to an ooze he slides down the tile wall and sits, the hot water streaming over him doing little to help with the shivers wracking his body and making him feel like a stranger in his own skin. There are smears of blood on the tiles, and his hands are bleeding again, but the tile is cool and hard and feels almost good against his fists.

He’s not sure how long he’s sat on the floor of the shower when his breathing is finally steady again and eyes clear and the sting of the hot water finally feels worse than its absence. He hasn’t broken down like this since… He’s not sure. M’s death, maybe. He’s not sure what brought it on, except that Madeleine told him of the violence she’d witnessed as a child, how she’d tried to leave it, how James seemed to draw it and be drawn to it, and she was right about _everything_ and it is good she left because he is violent and shattered and he needs to be even more so. Needs to _always_ check for a second weapon. Needs to _always_ deliver the headshot when he has a man down, regardless of the appearance of death. Those he protects depend on him not cutting corners in his brutality.

He’ll do better next time, but that won’t help Yasmine.

He reaches up to the faucet and shuts the water off, resting his head back against the tile wall… and he sees it. Mortification rises in his face as he studies the crumpled pile of clothing, his shirt collar still sporting the tiny, high resolution camera that allowed Q to see in the warehouse.

Bugger _all_. Had Q just witnessed his entire breakdown? Had all of Q-branch?

He rises, finally focused on something other than his pain. His earpiece is still in and silent as the dead. He steps on the camera, shifting his weight until he hears a small snap. He retrieves it and puts it in the case, because he’s going to dispose of the clothing and he can’t risk Q’s tech falling into the hands of their adversaries. He dresses and hangs a Do Not Disturb sign on his door, and is tempted to just pretend he hadn’t noticed the camera, but if he’s now the source of pity throughout Q-branch, he needs to know.

He activates the comm, and a moment later it clicks on at the other end.

“You rang, 007?” Q’s voice sounds as clipped and professional as it ever does when he’s multitasking.

James pauses for a moment before testing the waters with, “I’m afraid I’ve broken the camera, Q.”

“Indeed? That’s a shame. It proved useful during the mission. I pulled the feed down once I saw you’d arrived safely. Do you know how it happened?”

Thank god. “I forgot it was still in my clothes and stepped on it as I left the shower.”

“Ah. Well, yes, it wasn’t intended to withstand being walked on. As ever, I’ll adjust my design parameters to account for agent brutishness. Though considering the odds you were up against, I suppose it’s a small price to pay for a successful mission. Job well done and all that. I’ve wiped all footage of from the hotel video logs, by the way, and I’ve been monitoring chatter on Tor, but there’s no evidence yet that the organization is aware of what happened, much less who’s responsible. M would like you to stay put for the moment. Alec might need assistance in Romania, and it would be easier to send you directly, albeit circuitously. Right now we’re anticipating sending you to Tehran tomorrow afternoon, out on a flight the following morning.”

He’s itching to leave, but knows that could draw suspicion. Right now he’s just one of dozens of foreign businessmen on the road between the Gulf and Tehran. This itinerary would be more in line with a business trip than leaving in the middle of the night. He settles in for a long night of watching his back in case the current calm doesn’t last. At least he wasn’t staying until his original flight in three days.

“Understood. I’m ready to go if you need me out.”

“I’ll be watching satellites all night, 007. Get some rest, but keep your comm active in case I need to rouse you for a quick escape.”

“You don’t need to do that, Q. I’m capable of watching—”

“I’m monitoring several situations tonight, Bond. I’m not losing sleep on your account alone. And we may need you rested in the coming days, whereas I can call on R to take over my duties if necessary. Consider it an order, 007.”

Bond sighs, but in truth he’s bone weary and the call of oblivion sounds wonderful. He almost asks after Yasmine, but he’s too sure he won’t like the news, and doesn’t want to tip his hand that he cares. He shouldn’t care. That’s not his job.

“Understood. Bond out.”

He wakes just before dawn the next morning, rested but fidgety, the activity of the night before too brief to make up for days of sitting in cars doing reconnaissance. Today’s forecast of more inactivity posing as a businessman is suddenly more than he can bear. He slips into a tracksuit and leaves the building at a jog, half expecting Q to come on the line and chastise him for taking unnecessary risks, abandoning his post, or whatnot. When his phone buzzes in his pocket, he braces himself for the argument, but doesn’t find a message _per se_. Instead, a route has been programmed into his GPS, to a specific destination — two miles out and then back via slightly different path for a four and a half mile round trip. He shrugs, turning his strides down the road indicated on his phone and wondering what the hell Q is up to.

The track leads to the 150-year old **[Nasir al-Mulk Mosque](http://www.art-days.com/nasir-al-mulk-mosque-iran/)**. A few tourists are arriving via coach, and locals are coming for morning prayers. He feels out of place — it’s still cool enough that he’s barely sweating, but he’s still more casually dressed than most of the visitors. He can’t imagine why Q would lead him here. Is it for the mission? No, Q would have offered more details if that were the case. He’s about to turn and leave when the man at the gate waves him over.

“You will miss the light if you don’t hurry,” he says in accented English. “Come. Come!”

Bond hesitates for just a moment before he pulls a tenner out of his wallet and deposits it in the donations bin. He’s here. He may as well see what it’s about.

The exterior of the mosque is lovely in its symmetry but it’s when he enters that Bond understands why Q sent him here. The tilework is exquisite, and the geometry… well, he’s not sure what mathematics he’s seeing in these domes and arches lined with geometric tilework that seems to accentuate the receding columns and nested domes. Looking up at the ceiling, the intersecting arch ways almost appear to be an inverted flower or starburst, intricate and delicate and dizzying in its complexity.

He’s sure Q would love it.

But all of that complex beauty is completely overshadowed by the play of bold, jewel toned geometric shapes bursting against the floors and walls as the morning light streams through the stained glass windows. He’s never seen colors so strong or bright — reds, yellows, greens, blues — all dancing against the more intricate patterns of carpets lining the floor or tiles on the columns. The seams between the pieces of glass create the geometry of the windows, nested pentagons and diamonds forming whirling starbursts. He holds his hand out, watching it transformed by the colors into something luminous and beautiful, despite gun calluses and frayed knuckles. The tightness that he’s carried in his chest since last night loosens a bit, and he activates his comm, holding his phone up as well to make it look like a call.

“It’s like being inside a kaleidoscope.”

Q is apparently waiting for him. “You timed it perfectly. It’s supposed to be stunning at daybreak.”

“Hmmm. You should see it.”

Q doesn’t commit one way or the other. “Does this mean you’ve finally found stained glass windows you like?”

Bond looks at the bank of windows again… the bold shapes and bright colors. Anywhere else it might be garish.

“I like what they do to the space more than I like the windows themselves, but the effect is stunning. All these shapes, though… they don’t mean anything. It’s just geometry.”

“There can be meaning in geometry and symmetry,” Q counters.

“Well, whatever this means, it’s lost on me. It is lovely, though. Thank you.”

“Hmmm. Yes, well. I thought you could use some beauty after last night.”

Bond’s not sure what it is — something in Q’s reserved tone or the slight pause before “last night”, but he is suddenly sure that Q witnessed his entire breakdown, from the smashing of the mirror to the discovery of the camera and its willful destruction. Q isn’t calling attention to it, isn’t calling Bond out for being unprofessional or wasteful, isn’t pitying him. He’s just offering a different view. And acceptance.

Bond doesn’t really know how to thank him for that, so instead he wraps himself in British stoicism and ignores the revelation.

“She’s going to live, you know. I just got word this morning.” Q is almost muttering, as if he’s not sure Bond wants the information.

“That’s… that’s good to hear.”

“Hmmm. Feel free to check out of your hotel any time now. Drive up to Tehran. I’ll have a new itinerary sent to your phone within an hour, but your flight won’t leave until early evening, so take your time.”

“And where am I headed?”

“Home. The other warehouses are being infiltrated today, almost as we speak; M doesn’t want to give them a chance to go to ground and regroup. Once you’ve debriefed, we can send you out to chase down any rats fleeing the ship.”

“I’d be delighted,” he murmurs, thinking that if the rats are like the ones he disposed of last night, he’d be happy to dispatch as many as Q can find.

“It looks like your escape last night was clean. I’ll do a final wipe of your hotel presence once you check out, but we’re maintaining the same alias for your trip home.”

He lingers amidst the colored air and the sound of Q breathing and typing in his ear, feeling more at peace than he would have thought possible a few short hours ago. “Have you slept yet, Q?”

There’s a slight pause before he answers, “No,” and James can almost see Q rubbing his eyes behind his glasses.

He switches to the camera app and snaps a picture showing the jewel-toned light streaming through the air and against the intricate carpets on the floor, sending it to Q’s phone. He hears the the alert through the comms.

“Oh. Oh, you’re right. That’s lovely.”

He points the camera straight up and snaps a photo of the nested domes and arches of the ceiling and sends that as well. “After you’ve gotten some rest,” he says as he hears the phone alert ping through the comms, “I’d be curious about your take on the mathematics of what I’m seeing. It’s not like _La Sagrada Familia_ , but I suspect there’s some hidden meaning in those arches and diminishing shapes.”

Q huffs a laugh. “It’s a stunning example isn’t it? There are actually papers in mathematics journals on geometry in Islamic art and architecture, with examples from this mosque.”

“I’m not surprised. Or surprised that you’re aware of them.” A fondness he isn’t entirely familiar with infuses his tone, and he suddenly feels too exposed. He takes one last look at the mosque before turning to the exit. “I suppose I should get back to the hotel and check out before anyone wises up to my involvement in last night’s adventure,” he offers awkwardly.

“Certainly, 007. Q-branch will be here for support if you need us.”

“But not you, right Q? You’ll get some rest?”

There’s a pause. Q hates the necessities of biology as much as any agent Bond has ever known. “Yes, but I’ll check back in with you before the flight to make sure there have been no surprises.”

He knows it’s as much concession as he’ll get from the boffin. He’s probably only being _this_ reasonable because of orders from M or Tanner. They sign off and Bond hesitates only a moment before visiting the gift shop on the way out. He finds the nicest book in English, full of pictures and descriptions of the history and tile work. It’s not available on Amazon, and he knows Q would have a hard time getting it on his own.

The next day, after he’s checked in with M and returned what’s left of his gear to R, he slips into Q’s office and hides the book amongst the files of budget reports.


	4. Accrington, UK — Haworth Art Gallery

Chapter 4. Accrington, UK — [Haworth Art Gallery](http://www.aboutbritain.com/HaworthArtGallery.htm)

The remaining rats are dealt with over the following weeks, first in North Africa, and then at home. Bond is sent with an MI5 agent to Liverpool, where a warehouse not unlike those he’d disbanded before is brought under control. This time the rats are British citizens and captured for trial, which Bond finds unsatisfying and tedious. Q is in his ear, lecturing him on the benefits of not killing _absolutely_ everyone, but Bond remains largely unconvinced.

Something’s changed since Iran. Neither of them has said anything — other than Q stumbling over thanks for the book several days after Bond had left it in his office — but there’s a camaraderie between them now beyond the professional rapport they’d shared before.   It feels familiar, yet new, and Bond is constantly aware of it, senses heightened and prickling.  It's also, he cautiously admits, responsible for the ease to his psyche of late. He’s no longer quite as bitter as he was when he’d first returned to MI6. He has purpose, and though he’s alone most of the time, loneliness no longer drags on him like an anchor, pressing the breath out of him.

He knows it’s because of Q and the odd not-quite-candor that’s developed between them, all related to things outside work: mathematics and art and astronomy one late night during a reconnaissance in Lebanon. It’s changed the way Bond sees the world, the types of things he notices. Even when in London he takes note of the stained glass doors of pubs as he enters them, wondering when they were made and by whom, what techniques were used to color the glass. These are _not_ things he’s ever thought about before.

He’s driving south on the M6 from a joint MI5 mission in Lancaster when he gets a text.

_Q: Accident outside Manchester. Suggest you stop for lunch and let the traffic dissipate._

And then a route appears on the navigation app on his phone.

Bond rolls his eyes, but follows the directions, arriving in Accrington at an old estate with a grand facade and green. It’s a cafe... or rather an art gallery with an apparently award-winning cafe on the first floor. Bond gets a table for one, orders a meal, and then turns his attention to the description of the museum’s collection. Chuckling, he pulls out his phone.

JB: Were you aware that the Haworth Art Gallery has the largest collection of Tiffany stained glass anywhere in Europe?

_Q: Is that so? Well, traffic’s a right mess. You may as well have a look._

James laughs.

JB: Your innocent act isn’t working on me, Q.

_Q: No?  Well, I’ll just have to spend time with a few spies and see if I can’t improve my skills._

_Q: Be sure to see the landscapes._

Landscapes?

JB: There are paintings as well?

_Q: There are, but I meant the glass._

Well, that’s intriguing.

Bond finishes a very nice meal, feeling sated and relaxed as he buys his ticket for the exhibit.

It’s nothing short of stunning. There are vases and lamps dripping with glass vines and flowers, but Bond’s favorites are the windows, illuminated from behind, milky glass appearing to be a lake surface or clouds or dappled leaves at sunrise. He wonders where these windows were originally. Having seen how important the interplay architecture and the windows can be, he suspects half the impact of these is missing because they’ve been plucked from their designed setting and isolated against white walls. But even so, they are enchanting. For the first time, he sees the advantage of using glass for this type of art. The landscapes glow. They’re as radiant as sunset over to moors of his youth, some vibrant, some soft as dawn, but all compelling in a way James hasn’t experienced before. These same images in paint or pastels would not have the same effect.

JB: You’re right.

_Q: It goes without saying, but if you could be more specific in this instance, I’ll know better how to respond._

Cheeky brat.

JB: Cheeky brat. About the landscapes.

_Q: Ah._

There’s a lull before he writes again, Bond still wandering from room to room.

_Q: Which is your favorite?_

He has to think before he answers.

JB: The large lake scene with the trees on either side.

_Q: I know the one. On the wall by itself?_

JB: That’s it. You’ve been here before?

_Q: A while ago, but yes. I should go again next time I have a weekend._

_Q: There’s no plane involved, after all._

JB: There’s not. I wish you were here now.

There’s a longer pause now, and Bond immediately regrets his text. It’s true, but it isn’t something he should have said. It’s not the sort of thing their growing candor extends to. And even if his mind wanders to Q more and more of late, they are colleagues, and Q is young and beautiful and deserves more than some old, bitter killer. And for all he knows Q has a live-in partner, though Bond supposes with the hours Q’s on the comms with _him_ , it would have to be a very understanding partner.

JB: Sorry, Q. I’m sure you’re busy. Just ignore that.

The symbol showing Q is typing appears before Bond’s last is sent.

_Q: I wish I were, too. I’ll be glad when we’ve gotten the last of these rats. I’ll be due for some leave._

Bond releases a breath, appreciating the change of topic.

JB: And will you go somewhere?

_Q: Probably not. The cats have been neglected of late, and I barely remember what my flat looks like. But depending on how much M makes me take, I might consider a day trip, to air out the engine if nothing else._

Well.  That's _very_ intriguing.

JB: You have a car? What kind?

_Q: I have a bike. Much more convenient in the city. Tanner’s just arrived. Traffic’s cleared. The rest of your trip back to London should be uneventful._

JB: Thank you, Q. Tell Tanner I was delayed but will report in tomorrow.

_Q: He’s delighted to hear it. Q out._

James wanders through the rest of the collections, visiting the oil paintings of landscapes and portraits and still life before returning to the glass one last time. He gets a book in the gift shop, as well as a pair of green glass cuff-links. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever wear them, but the depth and variation in the color is so appealing he can’t resist them.

He drives back to London trying not to imagine Q on a motorcycle, trying not to guess whether it’s a lightweight hipster bike for commuting to cafes and bookstores or something with a bit more power. He hopes it’s the latter and then reminds himself it’s really none of his business.

Only Q said he wished he were there with Bond, too. And that… bears consideration.

The next morning he arrives early, hoping to hide the book in Q’s office before the boffin arrives in. He sees the Scout FTR1200 parked in the lot by the lift and _knows_ it’s Q’s.

It seems incongruous at first, but the more Bond thinks of what he knows of Q, the less surprising it is. Q is an engineer, and appreciates powerful, potentially deadly things. He also has an aesthetic appreciation of art and design. Merging beauty and power and well-designed machinery… it makes perfect sense.

And it is perfectly appealing. Bond is cut through with a want he hasn't felt in... well, in a very long time. Different entirely from what he felt for Madeleine, who needed protection and so made Bond feel strong and wanted and needed, until his more violent and suspicious tendencies were a hindrance rather than an asset.

With Q it’s different. Q knows exactly what Bond’s strengths are — deploys them routinely. He is perfectly comfortable with the weapon Bond is, but also sees the man behind the weapon, even when Bond himself denies that he’s much more than the gun.

He has a clever mind and a sharp tongue and an appreciation of the world despite the brutality he sees and wields daily. And Bond has no idea if he’s amenable to dating a man, but he _does_ know he deserves more than James can offer. It does nothing to stem the want he feels; it only complicates what he might do about it.

He enters Q-branch and seeks out R to return his equipment. Only when he hears that Q is in meetings does he slip into the man's office to leave the book.

The last one, he tells himself. It should be the last one.


	5. London, UK — Tate Modern

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The link at the beginning of this chapter is not for an actual location with a famous stained glass window, as I've used at the beginning of the other chapters. Instead, it's a fictional Tate Modern webpage for a fictional exhibit at that very real and wonderful museum. The art is all by jaimistoryteller, the artist of the original prompt, and the copy is by me. And the layout is ruthlessly stolen from the actual Tate Modern website.
> 
> You'll also see Jaimi's original art prompt embedded in the text. 
> 
> This is the last chapter. This has been a very fun and collaborative project, and I so appreciate jaimistoryteller's artistic contributions and chstnutNola's organizing of the 00q reverse big bang. It's truly been a blast.

Chapter 5. London, UK — [Tate Modern](https://slack-imgs.com/?c=1&url=https%3A%2F%2F78.media.tumblr.com%2F4af8f9d4d5ba6d7df0e698c586b0be8e%2Ftumblr_p2xz0q0bZY1u8idsno1_1280.jpg)

Over the following weeks, he’s sent out twice, first to Mexico City to steal a bit of tech from a drug cartel that's bringing cocaine into the UK, and next to New York, where he meets with a counterpart from the CIA to exchange information about an arms dealer that might be trading in plutonium with the North Koreans. In both missions Q is in his ear, ever helpful and professional and proficient. And Bond knows he is like that with all the agents, and he can’t read anything into it. But Q _also_ starts conversations about architecture or art native to where ever James is, and Bond is drawn in, trying to sort out if Q is merely being cordial during their long periods on the comms together, or is opening up to Bond as a friend, or if he’s showing interest — _romantic_ interest — in James himself, and using the art conversations as a means of awkward, geeky flirting. It’s maddening. Bond is a spy for god’s sake. He observes people and works out their motivations for a living. And he _cannot_ make Q out. Whether it’s because the man plays things close to the chest, or Bond only hears his voice and can’t read his face, he’s not sure. Or perhaps Bond is cautious because he can’t entirely rule out his own wishful thinking for any motivations he thinks he observes in Q.

Or _perhaps_ after everything, he’s rather gunshy: a terrible thing for a spy to be with an actual gun, but in romance… it’s probably just as well.

Still something about Q — about their conversations, about the way Q has sent him off to see various windows as if he’s trying to communicate something _quite different_ from the history of staining glass — gets under his skin. Gets him thinking about the things Q observes and finds intriguing.

That’s the only way he can explain that on both missions he sneaks off after the work is done and before the transportation is ready to see famous stained glass: the atrium [Gran Hotel Ciudad de México](http://cressman.ca/galleries/el-gran-hotel-ciudad-de-mexico/) in Mexico City — which he’s been to before but never paid much attention to — and [Chagall’s Peace Window](https://quintessentialruminations.wordpress.com/2011/04/22/chagall%E2%80%99s-%E2%80%9Cpeace-window%E2%80%9D-seeing-through-a-glass-brightly/) at the UN in New York. In both places he buys books about the windows he saw. Books he won’t give to Q. Not yet. These tokens were once friendly afterthoughts, but now feel loaded with intent or meaning that he’s not sure Q reciprocates. Which is fine. It’s because of Q that he doesn’t feel like the wounded thing that crawled back to MI6 after failing at love and retirement. He values Q, and can’t risk their professional relationship by tipping his hand and causing the boffin discomfort.

So he can’t give Q the books, though he has enough self awareness to know that’s whom they’re for. He can't.  Not until he can at least find out if Q’s dating anyone, which apparently not even _Moneypenny_ knows. Not unless he can determine if Q has any interest in him beyond an agent or surrogate art visitor.

James returns from New York and heads to Q-branch to return his gear just as the majority of the minions are leaving for the night. Q himself appears to be packing up, though his face lights as he sees James enter the branch, reviving James after the long flight.

“I can come back tomorrow if you’re leaving for the night,” Bond offers.

Q hesitates, but then sets his bag down and waves him over.

“I won’t be here. Baring international mayhem — which should be down to a minimum since you're in London for the next week — I’m off for the next five days.”

Bond raises an eyebrow as Q takes the Walther, his long fingers expertly checking its mechanism. He ticks a box on the intake form, barely tsking at the scratches along the barrel.

“Any plans?” James asks, to distract himself from how _very_ good Q looks, despite the dark circles beneath his eyes.

Q hums in the negative as he inspects Bond’s earpiece and checks it in. “Not set in stone, but I have a few ideas.” He removes his glasses and rubs his eyes, and Bond appreciates how green they are before Q returns the thick frames to his face. “Probably a day’s rest to start with.”

“Good. And then after that, an airing out of the engine?”

Q smirks at him. “Well, there’s rain forecast, so I’ll probably stick close to home this time. You? You’re grounded for the next few days as well. Any plans?”

“Just the usual.” Q’s probably aware that ‘the usual’ involves a bottle of scotch and… well, lately it hasn’t involved strangers in bars. He wonders if Q knows that. He wonders where Q goes after hours, and whom with, and if said person appreciates the long line of his neck or his cheekbones or how pink his lips are or the lean strength that oversized hideous trousers can’t quite hide.

Q glances sideways at him, and Bond realizes he’s been caught staring. He’s so used to Q as a disembodied voice in his ear, being confronted with his slender form, wild curls, and knowing eyes has Bond’s hands itching to reach out.

He slides them into his pockets and steps back. “Enjoy your time off, Q.”

Q looks as though he’s about to say something, but James is already backing away, and he seems to think better of it. “Get some rest, Bond.”

James turns and leaves the department before he can do something completely idiotic, like ask Q if he has plans for dinner. He said the usual. He’ll do the usual. He goes home, settling into an evening alone with a very nice scotch and the lights of the London skyline. This is good. The first day after a mission is always easy, so long as the mission hasn’t gone completely tits up. He likes the quiet, and the smooth burn of the scotch and the relaxation of not having anyone trying to kill him.

The next day is fine, too, excepting the hangover. He does laundry and gets food and jogs through London to remind himself why he does all of it. That evening, however, he’s getting twitchy. He doesn’t like being removed from work, particularly when work is what’s been keeping him from thinking about the past and whatever lessons he’s learned from it, and the present and how quiet it is. He roams the flat, sipping at his scotch, looking through his bookcases for something to entertain him. He generally goes for military history or something else that might help on missions, but tonight he grabs the book entitled “Stained Glass of the 20th Century” that he picked up in New York and scans the artistic philosophies of Jacques Grüber and Louis Comfort Tiffany and Marc Chagall.

The next day is worse, and he needs activity to feel he has purpose. He’s out early to do some shopping, visiting his tailor and buying shirts to replace the ones that got ripped during his last mission. He’s just heading back to his flat for a late lunch when he gets the text.

_Q: Tate Modern. North Exhibit Hall. 4 p.m._

Oh thank god, he has a mission. And Q must think it clever to do the gear drop at another museum — just like their first meet — though to be fair, perhaps this is Q’s way of staying “on leave” while still clearly working. James glances at his watch. He’s going to have to hurry to get to the drop on time. He acknowledges receipt and hurries home to get his car and head across town.

He arrives ten minutes early, inquires about the North Exhibit Hall, and is told it requires a special ticket for a new exhibit by a contemporary artist called Thalia McIntosh. Bond agrees to pay the added fee, surveying the room and largely ignoring the gushing praise for the artist the young woman can’t contain as she rings him up.

He removes his coat and locates the entrance to the exhibit… and stops in his tracks. Thalia McIntosh is a modern _stained glass_ artist. James suddenly isn’t sure why he’s here. It’s disturbing and thrilling in a way he hasn’t felt in a very long time.

The works are… well, they’re enormous. Entire walls of glass, almost atmospheric in scale and subject matter: forests and nebulae and fields of flowers. The closest thing James has ever seen that compares are the six-foot tall water lily panels by Claude Monet that span 42 feet of the Museum of Modern Art in New York. He finds Q sitting on a bench in front of a panel of various shades of green, twelve feet tall and at least sixteen feet wide, looking like the entrance to some faerie wood that you could actually walk into if you only knew how... _Alice Through the Stained Glass_ or some such. Thanks to all his reading, James knows something of the engineering needed to support a glass window of that size, and it’s not a trivial endeavor. He’s not surprised to see Q admiring it, probably appreciating both the engineering and science behind it, as well as the aesthetics of the piece.

James is a bit surprised to find him not wearing some oversized suit and that horrible anorak, but rather a nice pair of jeans and a jumper knit from multi-colored yarn, looking like some abstract nebula that is oddly in keeping with the setting… almost chic, if such things can be. It looks like cashmere or angora, soft enough that James’ hands itch to touch it.

He sits beside Q without speaking, and the younger man makes no sign of greeting. Q’s definitely not carrying a kit, and there’s something just a bit nervous about the way he sits studying the panel. It isn’t like their first meeting at the National Gallery. To start with, Q no longer looks impossibly young. Young, yes, and not yet weary like himself, but possessing minute lines around his eyes and mouth that balance his boyish looks and make him all the more appealing. And Bond no longer mistakes him for an art student. He’s watched those slender fingers fly on a keyboard and wreak as much havoc as Bond can with a gun. He’s watched Q hesitate for just a fraction of a moment, making a tough call, and then being decisive and competent and bringing agents home when it seemed nigh impossible. And he’s seen Q’s shoulders slump when his call was wrong… or right, but still not enough. And even with all that, Q is studying a piece of stained glass, finding beauty in the world.

And perhaps in old battered agents.

 

 

“What do you see?” Bond asks quietly, and he knows it’s the right thing as Q’s shoulders relax and he glances sideways at Bond with a smirk.

“Well, let’s see,” he answers, turning back to the glass. “On the surface, I admit it looks a bit broken, but I don’t dwell on the surface. I’m more interested in the depths — those shadows around the trees that draw me in and lead me like a path. The dappled light in the distance that makes me want to delve in and learn the secrets of this forest, understanding that it might feel unfamiliar or frightening until I’ve spent some time in it, but that the rewards will be greater than any stroll through a dull, sunlit garden. The… the _luminosity_ that tugs at me like a siren, compelling me to look closer, deeper, find beauty in the shadows as well as the light.”

Bond can scarcely breathe. He feels laid bare, and… has he _ever_ been wooed before? Not just propositioned or flirted with, but actually _wooed_? It’s a heady feeling.

“What do you see?” Q counters. And Bond huffs a laugh, because his first impulse is to be as snarky as he was the first time Q asked that question.

“Green,” he answers without looking away from the glass. Before Q’s disappointment can coalesce he adds, “Almost as many shades as are in your eyes.”

Q’s breath hitches and he turns to James.

“Almost,” Bond reiterates, turning to meet Q’s searching gaze. “It’s missing the gold flecks,” he adds almost wistfully.

Silence stretches between them.

The look in those eyes makes James feel brave, though not quite brave enough to maintain eye contact. He turns back to the glass, steeling himself and tipping his head toward Q as he murmurs. “I was wondering, Q, if you’d consider having dinner with me sometime.”

Q’s breath hitches again and he turns back to the glass, shifting a bit closer to James as he does and settling his weight back against his hands so that their shoulders are almost touching. It gives the impression of intimacy, despite the fact that the gallery is packed with strangers slowly walking from piece to piece and they are no longer looking at each other. A more familiar intimacy, in some ways. Almost like having Q in his ear while on mission while surrounded by strangers. It feels natural and comforting, but now also charged because Q is _right there_. And Bond wants him — the whole lovely, deadly, oh so competent package — so much he can taste it.

“Yes,” Q answers quietly, biting at his lip and nodding. “Yes, I’d like that very much.”

Bond lets out a held breath and fights the grin that’s threatening to bubble up. He should not feel this… this _giddy_ over the acceptance of a dinner date. Perhaps he doesn’t have the experience of asking people out with whom he has an actual intellectual and emotional connection very often. They sit and bask in all the _potential_ buzzing between them, even as patrons continue milling about as if nothing remarkable has just happened.

Finally, Bond can’t keep still. “Shall we see the rest of the exhibit?” he asks, leaning closer to Q’s ear and appreciating the shiver that goes through them both as his face brushes Q’s curls. “I assume you have a full art history lesson for me. It will be unorthodox to have it in person, but I’ve been told that flexibility in new situations is a hallmark of a good agent.”

Q laughs and responds almost coyly. “I may have a bit of information.”

They stand, and Bond finally indulges the urge to touch, placing his hand in the small of Q’s back. Q flashes him a pleased smile and starts describing the artist’s approach as Bond leads him into the next room. James can feel the wiry strength of Q’s back beneath the soft jumper, and it makes him hope that the exhibit isn’t _too_ large.

The next hour is spent wandering easily through the gallery while Q offers insights on the use of color and different opacities of glass and engineering advancements that have made large windows much lighter and able to support their own weight without reinforcements. And Bond does find it interesting, but not as interesting as the way Q turns to speak into his ear, stepping close into James’ personal space, so that if James is to keep his hand on the small of Q’s back — which he has no intention of relinquishing — he basically has his arm wrapped around Q’s waist. And he’s not complaining at all; he’s actually quite enjoying it. He’s just amused that Q seems to be orchestrating the closeness without asserting himself, trusting that Bond’s hand will stay where it is.

The trust is not misplaced.

When they finally get to the end of the exhibit, Q just stops in front of the last piece, apparently out of new information. He just stands, unsure, perhaps, of what to do next. Bond wraps his arm around Q’s waist, pulling him closer, and finds no resistance.

It’s nice, the way Q fits against him. Nicer still when Q’s arm reaches across his back.

“Do you prefer Italian, or steak and seafood?” he asks softly, not wanting to disturb this new peace.

“You want to go to dinner tonight?”

“Hmmm. If you’re amenable. The night is young. All this art talk has made me hungry.”

Q snorts.

“Two of my favorite restaurants aren’t too far from here. The italian place has a nice view of the river, but the steakhouse is more like a large pub, with high-backed leather booths. Private. And now that I think of it, I’m fairly certain there’s a stained glass window over the bar...you can probably tell me about its age and origin just from looking at it. But really, I’d just like to see what we can find to talk about beyond stained glass.”

Q offers a small smile, seems to think about it for a moment, and says, “As it turns out, I have the next few days off, so I’m in no hurry to go home.”

“Marvelous,” Bond replies, steering Q through the gallery. He doesn’t get far, though, before Q tries to take the lead again.

“Bond, the exit is back there.”

“Hmmm, true,” he responds, continuing on his way. “But I have to indulge my little ritual. We need to find the giftshop. I never leave these places without buying you a book.”

Q laughs. “I’m going to need to buy a new bookshelf for my burgeoning stained glass library.”

“It’s worse than you know. I have two back in my flat I have yet to give you. From my last two missions.”

“But I didn’t send you to windows on your last two jobs. You seemed bored with it.”

“Well, I was able to find them on my own. Spy, you know. Tell me, are you a fan of Chagall?”

Q stops in the middle of the hall, and James steers him over to the wall, worried he’d said something wrong.

“Q, I didn’t—”

“You went to see a Chagall? Which one?”

“In New York. The Peace Window.”

“And you bought me a book?”

“Of course. I—”

Q’s lips press against his, soft and warm and not quite chaste. And they are in public and haven’t even had dinner yet, but Bond gets over his startlement quickly and doesn’t mind _in the least_ having his plans go a bit off order. He wraps his arms across Q’s back and pulls him closer, finally feeling that strong, lithe body against his chest, clever fingers skirting his shoulder and neck. _Christ_ he smells so fucking good, James is momentarily lost. Something warm unfurls in his chest, complex and multifaceted and full of bright, gleaming colors.

“Take me to the steakhouse and then to yours so you can show me the books,” Q whispers against his mouth. And James is almost certain the command includes dessert and breakfast.

He huffs a laugh and wraps his arm around Q’s shoulders, leading him toward the store again. “That’s what I like about you, Q. You always have the _best_ plans.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. I'll be updating a new chapter every day or two, as rl allows.


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